The Early Hours
by Brigadier-Erin-Lightning
Summary: Evey reflects on the very first few hours after V's demise and the exploding of the Parliment. Drabble. Some implied VEvey.


_**The Early Hours** _

**By Erin Lightning**

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**

Most will remember the idea. For a while. But I will remember the man. Forever.

For a while, all I heard was the shatter of glass, the echo of explosions on the horizon, and his hymn, stronger and louder and prouder than ever before. All I saw, was pure bliss: the blinding colors, the grandest wonder I'd ever beheld. And all of this, a gift to me, that I returned as a gift to him. But in the early hours, when the world had witnessed the dawning of a new era, it was hard to believe that the parliament was gone. And even harder to believe that I would never see him again. At least, not in that tangible, guardian form that had guided my way and lighted my path for the last twelve months, never failing, never faltering in its affections and trust and, most of all, love.

I slipped away. I didn't want to be seen; all those dazed, zombie eyes and shuffling forms, who, having witnessed a miracle, were now to stunned to have direction, or understanding. I imagined he was here, standing atop some great platform, waving those black-gloved hands and showing all of England the way into this new future that we, ourselves, had all created. In my mind, he would be standing proud, tall, triumphant, speaking with such diction – but no, all of that was gone. He wasn't coming back, and, the more I thought about it, the more the realization that this had been his plan all along came crashing down on me. I couldn't stop myself: I looked about to find myself a dark, cold alleyway, where I could go unnoticed and unseen, and, stealing away to this secret sanctuary, I buried my face in my hands.

I cried. Long, and hard, and pitifully. I sank to my knees, and bowed my head against the wall. I slammed my fist against it, seething with the rage and sorrow and emptiness, and becoming malicious along with my weakness. And the tears came, steadily streaming down my face and pooling on the dirty, decrepit sidewalk beneath me. Dammit! I was weak again, just like before, just like when I couldn't protect him, or my parents, or anyone that really mattered to me. But why? Wasn't I fearless? Didn't that make me invincible? I didn't understand – couldn't understand. Only cry, and cry, as the pitch black of midnight faded to the lighter shade of one-o'clock, two o'clock...

And now the people are returning to their homes. They don't know the government has been entirely obliterated. They haven't yet learned that the one idea, the one man, the cause behind all of this, not only left us without a building, but also without anyone to govern us. They don't yet know that this is real; they still believe it to be some fairy-tale that they all share in common. They just trudge back through the grungy streets towards their homes, where they can rest peacefully until the morning comes, until they've had a cup of coffee, reach for the newspaper...and find nothing. No explanation; no evidence. Just a shining sun, and a city of freedom.

But I have no home to return to. Regardless, my little alley is threatened; I hear footsteps, and know that someone's coming. Instinctively, I find my footing, and brush away the last tender tears. I dart out the back way before the newcomer can see my face, and, instead, it is I who see the face. As I reach the street, it's everywhere. Discarded masks line the roads, thousands of staring smiles. My heart aches. As the people walk, there are crushing noises: the masks, so many of them, a veritable myriad, are trodden in the mud. The moment is over. For one moment, we were all united, but, being humans, we err only hours after our victory. We disown the unity, and we strike out on the paths that will lead us farther, and farther from each other, until, eventually, our paths take us all the way out of this world.

Still, it hurts. Something inside me stings like a wound, deep down in my heart. I dive forward, and snatch from some blundering drunkard's path one of the precious masks, clutching it to my heart. My precious Fawkes; my V. The man growls something-or-other, "Get out of my way, girl", but I don't care. Instead, I turn, shaking with this undeniable feeling of both anger and, in my heart, a love-spurned fear, and the words have left my mouth before I can even realize that it is my own voice speaking: "Remember, remember, the fifth of November." Loud enough so everyone near me can hear.

Startled looks, grunts, mumblings about the rantings of a mad woman. I leave before I can hear more than a word or two; I flee down the back streets, down the alleys, through the crowds, clutching my mask. I flee, and don't dare to look back this time. I don't have the strength to hear an answer. I can feel this fragile heart of mine, deep in me, crumbling, cracking, desperately threatening to be swallowed by a loss greater than ever before. And where does this loss come from? From that simple "Get out of my way" mumbled by some stranger. Because now I realize. I realize that, if we were to remember anything, and to act upon it, well, then...

Then we wouldn't be human.

And in the early hours, I watch. Alone, in the shadows, I watch the many bodies moving through the night, the many masks being destroyed before my eyes like so many memories, and ideas. In the early hours, I can already see the future. I can already hear the cheers for a new government, twice as corrupt as the last. I can already see the next death, the next war, the next idea, the next failure.

And I smile, though it hurts inside. I know V's sacrifice means nothing to these people. They'll forget the man. Maybe they'll remember the idea. Probably not. Not unless someone is here to remind them. But his sacrifice meant something to me, because now, I'm the one who isn't human. Because now, I'm that much-needed idea. The idea of freedom. And, raising my right hand...slowly, slowly...I wonder how I might look in the mask.


End file.
